


the woods of the world/yet in darkness dream

by tirion_skies



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: And Of Course - Freeform, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Brotherly Bonding, Brotherly Love, Coming of Age, Family Drama, Family Feels, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Foreshadowing, Gen, Pre-Canon, Self-Esteem Issues, a totally healthy amount of, being a fic mostly focused on, some Mildly Scary Bits for flavor, this is basically just me losing it over pre-Darkening Noldorin politics, with a dash of Russingon if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-07 01:28:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,827
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26188741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirion_skies/pseuds/tirion_skies
Summary: Do they have to leave? The thought enters his mind out of nowhere, and he recoils from it at first— of course they must leave, it is dangerous here— but whatever made it this way in the first place has disappeared, and it’s obvious that Ambarto still needs some time away from the rest of the family.Telvo thinks of what awaits him at home: hours of questioning, a watered-down version of Atar’s famed wrath, being stuck in their brothers' shadows."Tyelko," he says, "could we stay a while longer?"A family dinner turns to disaster, and Celegorm tells the twins a story.
Relationships: Amras & Amrod (Tolkien), Amras & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Amrod & Celegorm | Turcafinwë, Fingon | Findekáno/Maedhros | Maitimo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 15
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title is from an abandoned poem of the Professor's, The Flight of the Noldoli from Valinor.  
> The art that inspired this piece is by the amazing [mavariel](mavariel.tumblr.com), and can be found [here!](https://mavariel.tumblr.com/post/627547579123630080/my-first-trsb-piece-celegorm-telling-the)

Telvo runs at full speed through the empty corridors of Atar’s wing of the house, one hand pressed to his hair to keep it in place and the other swinging back and forth. The faces in the stone wall gaze down on him, mentors and friends and sometimes animals. Other families have tapestries to decorate their halls; Telvo’s has no weaver among its members and is too proud to send for one, and so they have carvings in the walls instead, made by the Lady Nerdanel. 

The effect is intimidating. The Lady’s statues all bear her signature sharp lines and rough edges, made all the more striking by the light of the torches that line the hall. Telvo remembers how terrified Ambarto would become at the prospect of having to go see Atar at night. _Hold my hand, little brother_ , he’d beg him. _The shadows will get me_.

Where _is_ Ambarto? Telvo shakes his head and allows himself a few moments to catch his breath. It won’t do to show up at the feast disheveled.

He pauses under a window. It is almost the hour of the mingling of the Tree-Lights, and the sky is deep blue and empty of clouds, as if even Lord Manwë and his Maiar want everyone to see the stars tonight. Telvo gives it a long look before he starts running again. 

His father’s wing is normally full of visitors, most of whom can be divided into two categories: the Followers, who agree with everything he has to say, and the Scholars, who come only to watch him craft and give him their respect reluctantly. Atar had laughed at Telvo’s description, stroked his hair as he gave his reply. “It is the Scholars I must value most, then, for they are proof that I am still truly skilled.”

 _Still_ skilled. Until then, Telvo had thought of Atar’s gift with words and crafts and near everything else in the world as a constant, something that is given and as natural as the stars and the trees. That conversation was how he found out that skill needed practice to keep, and he came to respect Atar even more for holding on to it.

In fact, everything seems to require real effort to keep these days. Nothing is to be taken for granted: Atar’s favor, his brothers’ attention, Ambarto’s whereabouts, their reputation… 

Telvo has pondered long and hard over their reputation. There are certain things expected of the family of King Finwë, this he knows; but there are also certain things expected of the House of Prince Curufinwë, and this is harder to understand. 

“We are the ones that stand out,” Ambarto said once. It’s a spot-on description. They have Atar, who is extraordinary in every sense of the word; they once had Lady Nerdanel but now they do not, a thing almost unheard of; they have Nelyo the perfect prince, Káno with his unearthly voice, Tyelko the famous hunter, Moryo and Curvo with their numbers and crafts. 

_And that_ , Telvo thinks as he stalks around a corner, _is precisely the problem_.

The invitation is what made him realize this. It was written in the older format, which means each person being invited has to be addressed by name and title. Even now, two days after Atar flung it in the fireplace and Nelyo had to fish out the pieces, Telvo knows it by heart:

 _King Finwë of the Noldoli and Nolofinwë, the Second Prince, respectfully request the presence of the House of Curufinwë two days from the present in the fields of Vala Nessa for an evening feast of reconciliation_.

The room practically exploded at these words, with everybody talking at once. Nelyo marveled at the location— “Did Nessa allow our use of her fields herself? And for _Nolofinwë_? I thought she did not care for our quarrels. Ai, what a treat!”

“Atya, will we be attending?” Curvo was sitting close enough to their father that he didn’t have to shout above Tyelko’s exclamations, leaning towards him out of habit. Like a moth to a flame, Ambarto used to mutter when he was annoyed with them both. 

“Look how considerate they were, they gave us all titles!” Moryo cried, and Tyelko snatched the paper from him. “Let’s see,” he said gleefully. “ _Maitimo the Tall_ , hm, quite generic. Makalaurë the Singer…” 

Káno flung out his hand, never once looking at Telvo or Ambarto. Over time, they've learned not to expect attention from him. “Will they ever admit I am a _harper?_ ” 

“You know they already have a Harper in Nolofinwë’s circle, Talagand somebody,” Nelyo points out. “Perhaps ‘bard’, or ‘skald’?”

“ _Tyelkormo the Fair_ , of course I am, I am a rare and magnificent beauty… _Yes_ , Curvo, I know it could be about my hair, will you shut up and let me have my fantasies? Carnistir the Dark, Atarincë the Crafty, and Ambarussa the Twins.”

Ambarussa the Twins! _Ambarussa the Twins_ , as if they have never accomplished anything but being born that way, never done anything of note. As if they were the same person in the eyes of the court. Telvo was so upset that he got up and made for his room, but not upset enough to miss how Káno turned away from him as he passed.

“It was a wise decision to leave,” Ambarto told him later in the darkness of their chamber, red-eyed and exhausted. “Nelyo and Atya had an awful fight— it was something about Nolofinwë using the Lady’s names for us to spite him, at first. Nelyo said Nolofinwë just didn’t want to call someone else the Third Finwë, and Atya started shouting at him for defending him.”

“Are we still going?”

“Yes, Nelyo convinced Atya and they both apologized. He was crying, Telvo. I’ve never seen him like that before.” Ambarto put his arms around him. “Funny, I used to be scared of just the shadows. Now I’m scared of everything.”

His father in tears, himself unworthy of recognition, and now his brother has gone missing. Telvo shakes his head and focuses on the statues, willing the stinging in his eyes to stop. He can't allow any tears. If he is to be remembered as anything other than a _twin_ , he will have to make a good impression. 

He turns another corner into a smaller hallway, with lower ceilings and no sculptures, and runs straight into Curvo. 

“Telvo! What are you doing here?” His brother seems surprised at the sight of him. Telvo takes the opportunity to wipe his eyes while Curvo adjusts his circlet, a thin ring of twisted silver too lovely to be anything but Atar’s work. 

Despite being the closest to them in age, Curvo is nearly a head taller than Telvo and Ambarto, his face identical to what paintings they have of their father in his youth. This evening, he looks stunning in a silver robe with crimson sleeves that match his jewelry. Telvo notices the heels hidden in the folds of the robe and suppresses a grin; he is not the only one in danger of making a fool of himself tonight.

“I am looking for Pityo— he has gone away again. Have you seen him?” 

“I saw him in the garden. Such a chore, rounding them all up.” Curvo shakes his head and gives him a pained look. “Have you seen Tyelko, by any chance?” 

Telvo laughs. “So you share my troubles. I haven’t seen him, but he is probably with Huan.” 

“That ridiculous creature,” Curvo mutters. 

“He is very intelligent,” Telvo responds, more out of loyalty to Tyelko than belief in his words. It’s no secret that Tyelko seems to find him and Ambarto more interesting than the others, and they do their best to return the favor.

“Intelligence does not necessarily mean freedom from foolishness. Look at some of Atar’s failed projects—” Curvo stops mid-sentence, averts his eyes. He knows full well that Atar only shows his failures to him. The rest of them have only seen the successes, the exquisite gems, the perfect calligraphy. None but him are close enough to their father to see his mistakes.

 _Really, brother?_ Telvo thinks. _Now?_

Some of it must show on his face, because Curvo mumbles something about finding Huan and flees, leaving Telvo alone in the corridor again. 

Telvo huffs and sets out for the garden. It is at the heart of Atar’s wing, surrounded by guests’ rooms that have not been in use for months. Nobody has bothered to light the torches near it; apprehension prickles Telvo’s back whenever he looks at the shadowed sculptures. 

The sweet scents of Tyelko’s hyacinths and the Lady’s roses mingle in the air near the arched door, and he is already planning what to say to Ambarto when he hears his name from the empty guests’ chamber. He pauses, one hand on the door, then turns back around.

The voice belonged to Káno.

Telvo sucks in a sharp breath. Káno who always took care to avoid them, who never talks to them. He would not believe it if the voice was not so distinctive. Whatever he is saying about him, it isn’t likely to be good, but he still itches to find out. 

It will not take long, and if Ambarto is indeed in the garden, he will not leave any time soon. When will there be another opportunity to hear what his most distant brother thinks of him? Telvo makes his choice and approaches the guests’ room as quietly as he can.

The door is sturdy, wooden, and slightly ajar; Telvo presses his ear to the gap and finds that there are two voices. 

“—do _not_ hate them,” Káno is saying in that passionate tone of his, the one that means he is either performing or gesturing as if he is. “They are perfectly good company.”

“Or they _would_ be, if you would bother to talk to them,” Tyelko snaps. “When was the last time you spoke Telvo’s name? When was the last time you even _looked_ at Pityo?”

“I have my reasons.” 

“Oh, I’m sure you do!” There is a loud _thump_ of palms on a table. Loud, excitable Tyelko, defending his twins with such righteous fury. Telvo grins. _Justice_ , he thinks. Not for himself, but for Ambarto— he remembers all too well how Ambarto used to tear up, thinking it was his fault that Káno seemed so unnerved at the sight of him. 

“The very reasons nobody has ever questioned before,” his brother continues, “because you are _older_ and _wiser_ than all of us. I am as old now as you were when you began to avoid them, and I could never imagine doing the same thing. If you aren’t going to stop this, you can at least tell them _why_.”

“Perhaps,” Káno bites, “I find that they are simply _not worth talking to_.” 

Telvo’s smile vanishes. Suddenly all he can see is the invitation before him, _Ambarussa the Twins_ , himself sitting in a corner of the dining room overlooked by all.

Tyelko presses on— “That is the most meaningless reason I have ever heard, surely there is something else, tell me, brother” —but Telvo has stopped listening. That _must_ be the reason. His vision blurs and he wipes at his eyes with his sleeve again, stepping unsteadily away from the door. _Stupid, unworthy Telvo._ What talents does he have compared to his brothers? What is he, really, next to the Princes of the Noldoli?

“Just find Ambarto,” he whispers to himself. Eavesdropping was a terrible idea. Eager to leave his bad decision behind, he pushes open the door with a loud creak of hinges that thankfully blocks out the rest of his brothers’ argument.

A fresh wave of scents hits him the second he steps outside. The garden has been left untended since they were very young, and with no fence or border to rein in the plants, it has become a miniature of the wild lands in the south of Aman: Always damp and foggy with the water from the stone fountain in its center, always full to bursting with flowers and weeds taller than Telvo himself. 

It is a perfect hiding place, and Telvo is surprised that Curvo was paying enough attention to Ambarto to see him here.

 _Unless_ , something in him whispers, _unless he was making sure Ambarto wouldn’t hear Tyelko and Káno_.

He ignores that thought as best he can and carefully makes his way through the tangle of bushes, certain of where he has to go. If Ambarto is in the garden, Ambarto will be in a thinking mood, and if Ambarto is in a thinking mood, he won’t be far from his favorite spot. 

Telvo lifts a branch out of his way and comes face to face with his mother. 

Ambarto sits in his usual position, leaning against the statue with his back against a fold of the Lady’s stone robe. Her image looks out at the stars with both hands above her heart, and the only piece of jewelry she wears is a thin silver bracelet. Vines and thorns creep up her hair and hide her face, but Telvo remembers what it looks like: arched eyebrows, a long nose, eyes that are at once stern and gentle. 

He hasn’t seen the Lady in person in a long time, and doesn’t often think about her, but Ambarto is different; he comes here to this statue almost every day. Telvo still remembers the day his twin asked him to call him by his mother-name, at least in private. He did not ask why then, but maybe he should have. 

Maybe he should have followed him. In light of recent events, _Russet-top_ sounds much better than _Last-of-the-House_. Telvo clears his throat, and Ambarto startles and stands up hurriedly, like he’s been caught doing something wrong. 

“Telvo! I didn’t know you would come looking for me so soon.” 

“Well, the feast is in a few minutes,” Telvo informs him in his best imitation of Nelyo’s voice, aiming to project _wisdom-responsibility-maturity_. “Now come on, we’re all meant to be in the entrance hall.” 

His voice becomes hard and snappish near the end, and he winces. He didn’t mean to project his insecurity onto his brother, the way Nelyo always warned them against doing. _Or we could end up like Atya and our uncles_ , he’d said in a haunted voice, and Telvo had been shocked, never once having thought of those three as _family_.

Ambarto tilts his head and stares silently at his twin. Telvo notices that they’re dressed similarly today; Atar insisted on having some say over their clothes for the occasion, and he likes making them match. Tonight they wear matching crimson robes, glittering with silver thread and jewels near the collar, over plain grey tunics. The wind ruffles their hair and tugs at their sleeves, making them look like wings. Little red birds in a garden of stone. 

“You’re upset,” Ambarto says finally, and Telvo’s shoulders sag in relief. 

They think they are one _fëa_ sharing two _hroa_ , but that is because they do not look close enough. It is easy to fool everyone and convenient when one wants the other to stay with him: _He is half of me, we cannot be separated_. But both of them know that they have always played two distinct roles, consoler and consoled. Ambarto, who thinks so deeply that he can comfort anyone, and Telvo, always in need of comfort.

He nods silently, and Ambarto puts an arm around him and leads him out of the garden. 

“Would you like to talk about it?” he asks as they make their way back through the corridors, passing more locked doors than ever. Telvo tries to avoid looking at them, for they are a reminder of Atar’s recent troubles; he is worried, scared even, that someone will come to take the Silmarilli away. 

Telvo pictures Nelyo’s face the day Atar first spoke openly of his nightmares, brows pinched with sadness. After a few minutes of listening, he’d thrown up his hands and shouted at them all in a rare temper: “You would keep these things from _me_? No, don’t say anything, Atya… how many years have I been taking care of you, while knowing nothing about you?”

“Tell me what you were thinking of instead,” he decides as the memory retreats from the front of his mind. “I think I need a distraction.” 

_I will tell you eventually_ , he adds silently. _Not now_.

Ambarto hesitates— “I, I was thinking of” — then takes a deep breath. “I was thinking about Endor, actually. What it would look like, what things it would have to admire.”

“What is there to admire in Endor?” Telvo scoffs, flicking his brother’s shoulder. It’s a childlike habit, and a painful one now; the jewels on their robes are lovely and sharp-edged. “Everything is shadows and trees.”

“Everything is shadows and trees in the woods of Aman,” Ambarto points out. “There could be things out there that have never been seen by the eyes of the Eldar! I was daydreaming a little, about what it would be like if we ever went there.”

This time Telvo laughs out loud, half at his brother’s bashful smile and half at his words. “And what do you expect it will be like?”

“Ai, I don’t know.” Their gait has turned back into the good-natured swagger that annoys Moryo so much, a comfortable rhythm that makes its own simple music on the floor. “Some time away from all this court business might be good for us.”

“And it might make us worse. We would be quarreling amongst ourselves for sure. You know there wouldn’t be a moment’s peace between us and Moryo and Curvo…” 

Telvo’s voice trails off. His twin’s smile has gone, and there is a strange weight in his eyes. 

“Ambarto?” he says softly, but his brother does not answer. Telvo bites his lip and takes his hand again.

Neither of them speaks as they make their way to the entrance hall, where all the others have been waiting. The hall is large and empty, the only place in the house with windows nearly as wide as the walls. There is no need for torches here, and the gentle light from outside filters through the glass to highlight Nelyo’s face as he turns to greet them.

They never use Nelyo’s mother-name anymore, but Telvo still remembers its meaning: Maitimo, _Well-Shaped One_. It is a fitting name. His eldest brother is stunning in a glittering white tabard with a red sash draped over one arm, a circlet in the same style as Atar’s and Nolofinwë’s shining on his loose curls. Telvo looks down and notices Nelyo’s boots, tall and sturdy, too practical for a formal occasion. He will need them to sneak out with Findekáno after the feast… 

The thought of teasing Nelyo and Findekáno about their _little secret_ brightens up his mood a little, and Telvo puts on his brightest smile and bows slightly before his family.

“I am sorry to have kept you waiting,” he says, and Ambarto follows suit. 

Tyelko has been arguing with Curvo in the corner, but now he turns his attention to them, squeezing their shoulders good-naturedly and giving Káno a _very_ pointed look as he does so. “It doesn’t matter; you are here now, after all. My, how tall you look in that robe, Telvo!” he exclaims. 

Telvo’s smile is genuine this time. “If I am lucky, I shall soon be taller than you all,” he replies. 

“All but Nelyo,” Ambarto objects. “I doubt anyone will ever know what the top of his head looks like.” 

Tyelko laughs at that. Like everyone else, he is in silver and red, but Telvo notices that he still has not taken off the pendant gifted to him by someone else in Lord Oromë’s hunt. Emeralds for the forest, emeralds for the wild pools. 

“I am certain it is as fair as the rest of him,” Atar says fondly. 

“One does not simply ignore Curufinwë Fëanáro,” Telvo has once heard a Maia say, and never agreed with anything more. He spends a few seconds simply taking in the sight of him, at once splendid and terrifying in a heavy floor-length tunic spun from several layers of cloth. The outermost layer is gleaming black but translucent in places, most notably over his heart, showing the brilliant reds and oranges underneath. Combined with scarlet rings and an elaborate gold headpiece, the garment makes him look as if he is wearing burning embers. 

And then there are the other things: the way he moves, as if he knows the stones intimately, the uncomfortably bright blue eyes and the almost cruel sharpness of his features. These are the things that some of Nolofinwë’s more unpleasant followers call _unnatural_ and _not of the Eldalië_ , but to Telvo and his brothers they are merely part of what makes their father so exceptional. 

“And Pityo, you may yet find out,” he says as Ambarto and Telvo run up to him. “I’ve seen that stepladder you are building. I do not know much about wood, but if it is able to take my weight, then you will have no trouble with it.”

Curvo looks down at them with wide eyes. “Pityo, when did you begin working with wood?” 

“I will not tell you! It is your punishment for not paying attention to me.”

“Pityo, we _always_ pay attention to you and Telvo. Your threats to conspire against us with Huan have been most effective.”

“Atya, what did you need a stepladder for?” Káno asks. 

“A new project of mine,” Atar replies with a sly smile and a wink at Curvo. Telvo is reminded of their earlier conversation in the corridor and takes care to hide his wince. 

“Shall we be going then, Atya?” Nelyo asks softly, and the moment is completely over, replaced by the kind of reality that feels like a sword-hilt to the head. Telvo tunes out the conversation and starts reviewing all he has ever been taught of court etiquette. He is not to speak to Nolofinwë without first greeting him by his titles, and the same applies to every one of his cousins, as he is the youngest. If he does not know a title, he is to very discreetly ask a servant. Requesting more water is a good cover… 

“—and they simply walked away!” Tyelko explodes into laughter as he ends the story, and Telvo is startled out of his train of thought. He scowls at him and starts over. How can they all be so calm about this?

 _Because they have nothing to prove_. 

It was the chief reason Atar did not want to attend Nolofinwë’s feast: _We have nothing more to prove to those who have insulted us so_ . Perhaps Nelyo used the wording of the invitation, “ _Ambarussa the Twins_ ”, to convince Atar of the need for their presence? 

Atar opens the door, and the rest of them trail out after him. Tirion is breathtaking at this hour: drenched in the light of both Laurelin and Telperion, its silver-white towers and white streets glow with a stark, pale light. Sea-birds of every color fly in circles around the roofs, occasionally landing on a lucky window-ledge. Far and away, the peak of the Mindon stabs at the sky, and the solid stone walls of the Pelóri loom on either side of the city.

Telvo allows himself a few seconds outside his thoughts to marvel at the sight of it: Valinor, the safe haven of Arda. In times like this, he understands why King Finwë risked so much to bring his people here. He doubts he will ever want to leave, no matter what beautiful things Ambarto thinks there may be in Endor.

 _Focus_ , that quietly angry part of him hisses, and Telvo swallows hard and goes back to table manners. Spilling anything directly on the tablecloth may be unforgivable He must stick to his assigned seat, wherever that may be. He can only hope that he will be next to Ambarto, but if he is next to Artanis instead he must not be too casual with her…

“Telvo!” Ambarto grabs him by the shoulder and pulls him back. “You almost tripped over a root, you and your wandering mind.” 

“It’s alright,” he says absently. Given his position, he and Ambarto will not have to worry about being introduced individually; they will be part of the House of Fëanáro, nothing more. But how will they enter: as a group, or in a line? If it is the former, will they split up as they approach their places? 

He can never make a mistake. Káno thinks ill of him now, his own brother. Will he hate him altogether if he embarrasses them tonight? As distant as he has been these past few years, the thought of his disapproval still stings. 

Something must show on his face; Ambarto falls into step beside him, soft and gentle and all too understanding. 

“Telvo, you must remember it doesn’t matter as much as you think.” 

“I’ll be fine,” Telvo replies. _Nothing must go wrong_ , he tells himself, and in his mind he measures himself against the rest of his family to remind himself just how much catching up he has to do.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here there be Dramatic Entrances (TM)

They follow one of the narrower paths out of the city and turn towards the deep valley behind the Pelóri. This land is covered in ancient trees, all gnarled trunks and twisted branches. It is said that there was once a properly paved road that cut through the entire wood, connecting the city of the Noldoli to the gardens of Lórien; but the Eldar stopped traveling by that path a long time ago, or so Telvo has heard, having less and less to heal from after the Great Journey. 

Telvo has never once been to the gardens of Lord Irmo— Atar forbids it, and seems strange and uneasy whenever King Finwë visits it— but he thinks he has once seen it in a dream. It is a place of unsettling calm, a rippling grass field and gatherings of flowers surrounding a deep pool of water so still that it acts as a mirror. 

There upon the water is a small boat, and there in the boat lies the body of Miriel Þerindë, the queen fallen into eternal rest, her hands clasped forever over her heart. Rumor has it that the sight of her was part of what led the Eldar to avoid the gardens: it is too much for some to bear.  _ Only the King and Irmo’s Maiar can stand to touch the empty skin now _ , they say when they think Telvo isn’t paying attention. 

And so the Eldar forsook the gardens, and nothing lies between them and Tirion but the wild woods and the ruins of a road. Somewhere in this forest the Lady Nessa has claimed a field as her own, and this is the first time it has ever hosted a gathering of the Eldar. Telvo is beginning to suspect there’s more to this than a simple display of friendship. Is it the Valar’s intent to slowly lead them to grow used to the woods again, their hope that visitors will return to Irmo’s gardens? 

Telvo picks his way through piles of dead leaves and over outstretched roots. The trees grow denser as they go, and the air is close and strange, dulling each sound and making it hard to breathe. They must be deep in the forest by now. When Telvo looks up through the canopy of branches overhead, he can see that Tirion has faded to a white blur in the distance. 

He resists the temptation to ask Atar if they really are going the right way. Tyelko remains cheerful, and all the others seem to know where the meeting-place is; they are sure to tease him the rest of the way if he says anything—

They brush between two towering trees, both wrapped in thick, thorn-covered vines, and Telvo takes his mind off court traditions for a moment to  _ look _ at Ambarto. 

His twin’s eyes widen. “ _ No _ .” 

“ _ Pit _ -yo,” he whispers, putting on his most piteous expression. “Please?”

Ambarto heaves a mighty sigh and runs to Atar’s side. “Atya, how far is it to the field?” 

“A prince among the Eldalië does not rely on his brother to do his work for him, Telvo,” Curvo says drily. “We are almost there. Can’t you hear it?”

Telvo tilts his head to his right, the way Káno always does when he tunes his harp, and begins to listen. 

He hears the flutes first, a hollow, clear sound nothing like those of his own metal instruments that  _ floats  _ through the trees and into his ear, no more deliberate than the flow of water. This melody seems older, somehow, than the music they play at home; Telvo hears voices between the soft notes, but the singing exists to back up the instruments and not the other way round. 

Within seconds, glasses and knives become an even duller subject to him, and he abandons all attempts of reviewing them. He pushes his way past a cluster of ferns, focused only on following the music, and ends up with his nose inches from Curvo’s back. They have stopped at the edge of a clearing, one so huge that Telvo wonders if the woods have ended at first. 

It doesn’t look natural. That is the first thing Telvo notices: the clearing is in the shape of a perfect circle, every blade of grass in it the same length and the same shade of dark green. The constellation Menelmacar, the Swordsman in the Sky, shines directly above its center, and the trees that surround it have the same distance between them, like pillars holding up a star-studded roof.

Everything is deliberately beautiful, which must mean that the Ainur shaped the land to be this way, just as easily as one might sculpt stone or add an extra brushstroke to a painting. It is unsettling, this implication of great power that hangs in the air above them. Telvo finds himself almost instinctively drawing nearer to Ambarto, who only points at something far away and whispers, “Look, brother!”

The second thing Telvo notices is the skeleton of a pavilion standing upon the flowing grass. As he watches, servants emerge from the ring of tree. A group of them bears a large sheet of shimmering white silk on their shoulders; they begin to cover the pavilion in it, hanging the fabric from the crossed beams that should normally support the banners of each House present.

In fact, there is hardly a speck of blue or red among the lavish decorations. Everything has been scrubbed of color, and it seems like something is missing. Telvo remembers that white meant “surrender” in the fights that took place during the Great Journey. 

Tyelko breaks the silence, scoffing at the pale banners: “Feast of Reconciliation! I’d say  _ Feast of Forced Neutrality _ is closer to the mark.”

Ambarto startles and looks up at him. “What do you mean?”

“Ai, I forgot you two are new to this,” Nelyo mutters. “It’s obvious from the colors there that the King wants everyone to keep their more… controversial opinions to themselves, tonight, to keep the peace. So be careful what you say, _ Tyelko _ ,” he adds with a stern look, the kind Curvo practices on them when he wants to appear grown-up. 

“Why invite us at all if they don’t mean to let us settle things?” Tyelko grumbles. 

To “settle things” means to discuss in depth a thousand little conflicts that are apparently harmful to the peace of Valinor, which range from several strongly worded letters between Atar and his half-brother to Ambarto and Telvo’s many harmless pranks upon Findekáno. Their step-cousin does not mind it, but his friends have a habit of making a spectacle out of everything— as do Atar’s, and as does nearly everyone in Tirion. 

Telvo shrugs. “Maybe it’s just that Grandfather wants to see us all together.” Grandfather. It is an uncomfortable word, and feels somehow disrespectful to the king, but Atar hates it when they refer to him by his title. 

“And risk a fight breaking out between the two of them?” Tyelko gestures subtly to Atar, or at least tries to, but subtlety isn’t exactly one of his strong points; he gets a sigh and an incredulous look for his trouble. “I think not,” he finishes somewhat weakly.

“He could do it somewhere more private,” Moryo muses. “And what’s the point of having a nice family gathering in the fields of Nessa herself? I say the King’s will may be one of many at play.”

“May be one of many at play’,” Káno says haughtily. “Stop trying to sound like the Valar themselves, Moryo!”

“Exactly— the Valar.” Curvo claps his hands together, his eyes bright. “I have a theory—”

“A little too early for your conspiracy theories just yet, Curvo,” Nelyo snaps. “I’m entitled to a break from them until Fi— until  _ I _ am at least halfway through a glass of wine.” 

“And I am entitled to the right to speak my mind until we are introduced!” Curvo waves a hand at the clearing, where the preparations seem to be wrapping up. “The Valar must have a hand in all this, an attempt at  _ keeping the peace _ .”

“I don’t see what’s so terrible about that. They would surely do a better job than us.”

“It’s not just about peace, Nelyo! I’ve said this so many times—”

“Too many times. Pay him no heed, Ambarto, you know how he gets.”

“Nelyo, Curvo, please stop arguing,” Ambarto begs in vain. 

“—and they say in the House of Memory that they only want to keep the peace because they want to keep us here, in Aman. That’s why they bother doing all this, to stop us from ever leaving their rule. The feast is just part of the plan!”

“The House of Memory!” Ambarto bursts out, his voice high and shrill. This time they both give him their attention, looking at him with almost comical surprise. Telvo winces as his twin’s hand tightens on his shoulder. “What in all Arda were you doing, listening to people from there?”

“You know who runs that place, Curvo, no matter how he pretends otherwise.” Atar’s tone is low and serious, and Curvo visibly  _ shrinks _ . Telvo waits for him to rebuke his so-called theory, but it seems he has nothing to say on that matter. 

The silence goes on far longer than is comfortable. Telvo tries to imagine Curvo in the House of Memory, that bright red robe against black marble, his brother speaking to those who keep company with the darkness, eager for their forbidden knowledge. It simply won’t  _ fit _ , in the same way that the Trees will never die. 

“What could have possessed him to go there?” he whispers to Ambarto, but his twin only looks dead ahead, the way he did in the corridor. 

A sudden surge of sounds catches Telvo’s attention: the servants have stepped back, allowing King Finwë and his retinue to enter the field. 

Telvo has not seen his grandfather for some time, but he has not changed since their last meeting, or even their first, nor will he ever look different: he is still every inch the proud leader of the Journey, clad in golden robes and crowned with silver. His companions keep a respectful distance as he approaches the throne-like seat at the head of the long table. They also supply the colors this place has been lacking so far; each one of them is arrayed in clear red, blue, or gold, making the neutral colors of the pavilion almost pointless. 

One by one, the chairs begin to fill up, leaving only the seats closest to the king empty. The general noise in the field grows louder; now that the formalities are over for them, the people have begun to exchange greetings. 

A tall figure in a grey hood settles down in a stool in the corner, their gloved hands clasped before them. They wear no house colors, despite their position of honor, and they are not involved in any of the conversations. They are distinctly apart from the rest, and seem to be glad of it, from the look on their face. 

“Who is that?” Ambarto asks, speaking for the both of them. Curvo glances at the figure and lights up. 

“ _ That _ , my dear little brother, is a gesture of goodwill from the Valar,” he says. “See, Nelyo, I told you they have a part in this!”

“Are they a Maia?” Telvo asks, intrigued, and leans as far out from the relative safety of the trees as he dares before the light chases him back. He still cannot see their face. 

“That looks like Maia Olórin, though I could be wrong,” Nelyo says doubtfully. “He is too far away to be sure.”

“Olórin, an ambassador of goodwill at a court feast?” Tyelko laughs, a short, bark-like thing. “This should be interesting.”

“Why, Tyelko? Do you know him?” This person, Olórin, looks like a Maia of Nienna, and Telvo can’t imagine Oromë’s hunters have much in common with the companions of the Lady of Grief.

“In a few hours,” Tyelko beams, “we shall all be either very glad or very sorry that he is here.”

“Quiet, you two,” Atar says softly. “Your grandfather is about to speak.” 

Telvo straightens up as the king rises from his seat, starlight glittering in his crown. Atar looks at him with genuine respect, an emotion he seems to reserve for his family and no one else. The voices at the table die down as all turn to the king, expectant, and Telvo almost pities his grandfather before he reminds himself that not everyone shies away from attention. Not everyone, he thinks in sudden bitterness, is as odd and clumsy as him. 

King Finwë’s voice rings out across an otherwise completely silent field. “My friends, my kin, people of the Noldoli, I welcome you to this feast which I call  _ Mereth-Gwaith-i-Tirion _ , for the people of our great city.”

There is quiet applause— not politely quiet, but reverently quiet. Telvo finds himself joining in, clapping almost silently. For a moment the king’s eyes seem to meet his own through the layers of leaves, a secret smile that doesn’t need to reach his lips, and his heart skips a beat. 

“Let us here forge anew the ties that bind us together, so that this night may be counted among our brightest since we first escaped the darkness and joined the stars in the land of Aman.” 

Applause again. Atar’s face now holds barely contained satisfaction as well as respect: evidently, he is pleased with the king’s use of the word  _ forge _ . In contrast, some of the blue-robed folk are now muttering angrily, but all chatter dies down again when Maia Olórin rises from his stool. 

Nelyo raises an eyebrow. “An unexpected move.”

“But a clever one,” Curvo says approvingly. “This way, he cannot be directly responsible for introducing one of his sons before all the rest.” He glances down at Telvo and Ambarto, who are beginning to shiver a little in their thin robes. “Prepare yourselves, Ambarussa. It is almost time.” 

Telvo sucks in a breath and smooths down his hair. What did Moryo say about posture last night? Something about keeping the shoulders straight— but where to look? Is he to meet the eyes of the king to acknowledge his presence, or is such a thing impolite? Must he then look down at the ground? 

He despises that he still has to ask these questions.  _ Look at your brothers, all so sure of what to do _ . A quick glance upward confirms that Nelyo is merely searching for Findekáno in the trees, and Tyelko is straightening his collar with the ease of someone who has done it a thousand times before.  _ Where do you belong among them? _

Maia Olórin steps forward and intones, “The High Court of the Noldoli are honored to present to you the House of Nolofinwë, son of the king.” 

Nelyo’s eyebrows shoot up into his finely combed hair. Ambarto wears his confusion plainly on his face, and Curvo and Moryo start whispering to one another.

“I don’t understand,” Telvo says hesitantly. “Were we not going to be invited in first?”

“It is the custom for the eldest to take the lead, yes,” Tyelko replies. “And the fact that Nolofinwë was introduced simply as the son of the king, rather than the second son, implies, well…” 

“A challenge,” Ambarto chimes in. Telvo is more surprised at the look on his twin’s face than at Nolofinwë’s apparently unconventional introduction: he looks worried, almost angry. 

“Very good, Telvo, so you have paid attention during my lessons after all…” Nelyo’s voice trails off, but his mouth remains open as Nolofinwë and his children appear from between two trees. 

Findekáno leads the way, shining in a fitted blue tunic with a broad, crossed collar covered in golden embroidery. Gold strands have been braided into his dark curls, and the same pattern creeps up the sides of his white boots. His forearms are exposed, an unusual thing for formal wear; silver bracelets wind around his wrists, shrouding him in the reflected light of Telperion. Nelyo’s eyes flicker closed as he passes, as if the mere sight of him is painful. 

Telvo watches him pass with wide eyes: proud, confident,  _ exquisite _ , everything a prince should be and everything he is not. 

Findekáno’s father is nearly eclipsed against the sheer radiance of him, but Nolofinwë makes up for it with an air of  _ command  _ famed among his followers, the equivalent of Atar’s unearthly airs in his house. He looks like a mountain, a peak of the Pelóri that is made to endure, and Lady Anairë is equally inscrutable. Whispers and admiring looks follow in their wake. 

Írissë, Turakáno, and Arakáno come behind him, similarly clothed in blue and white, all of them so aggressively beautiful that Telvo almost doesn't notice when their turn comes: he is only aware of the Maia's voice coming from far away, and then Ambarto is nudging him forward into the light. 

In spite of all the worrying he’s done beforehand, all the nerves and the halfhearted reviewing, Telvo never gets an opportunity to put his lessons to good use; the moment is over too quickly. He barely sees anything but the trains of Curvo’s robe and keeps his gaze resolutely away from the crowd at the table, trying his hardest not to have any thoughts. Ambarto keeps a firm grip on his hand, anchoring each of them to the other. 

When someone comes to direct them to their seats, Telvo’s legs almost give with relief, but— to his horror— the attention doesn’t end when they are all seated. He finds himself and Ambarto attracting curious looks.  _ Right _ . Twins are rare among the Eldalië, and being one is all that they know him for. 

He is too dazed to properly appreciate Arafinwë’s entrance, but he catches Artanis’ eye as she brings up the rear of his procession. She nods in acknowledgement, every inch as regal as her father. He cannot quite believe she is only a year older than him.

It feels like he will have to endure the stares forever, but eventually the cheers die down, and the curious gazes on them begin to drift away. Telvo takes Ambarto’s hand under the table. They made it. 

Things take their inevitable turn for the disastrous some two hours later. 

The food is quite good and similar to what they cook, or rather attempt to cook, at home. Telvo finds himself calming down as he takes small bites, not willing to risk an upset stomach on top of his nerves. People stand and approach the members of all three Houses, asking questions, paying tribute. 

Thankfully and regretfully, Telvo and Ambarto have no visitors. It’s what he likes and hates the most about being overlooked: nobody thinks well of them because nobody thinks of them at all. Bored of waiting for someone to come for them, and of watching the mostly silent Olórin go about his business, Telvo finds himself listening in on Nelyo and Findekáno’s conversation. 

“I must congratulate the one who made this…” Nelyo’s hand closes around Findekáno’s, nowhere near the necklace he mentioned.. 

Findekáno’s hands slowly make their way up to Nelyo’s shoulder, where they rest slightly longer than what would be  _ appropriate _ . 

Ambarto is too busy spying on their brother’s valiant attempts at courting to notice, but Telvo sees the blue-clad elf as soon as he starts to walk toward them. He stands straight, his posture that of someone with a purpose. Telvo nudges his twin. “Am-Pityo, someone is here to see us!”

He almost said  _ Ambarto _ . Rarely does he ever forget to address his brother by his father-name in public, but the stranger’s appearance is exciting. Someone has finally  _ seen _ him. 

“Ai, Prince Telufinwë,” the visitor exclaims, bowing. Telvo has to remind himself that it is only a formality, that this does not mean the elf has any real respect for him. Genuine bows from Nolofinwë’s followers are for Nelyo only, and perhaps Curvo if he is being particularly clever. 

“I am Talagand the Harper, a friend of Prince Turakáno, my lord,” the stranger continues. “I am honored to be in your presence…” 

Ambarto surprises him by taking his eyes off Nelyo and putting an almost protective arm around him. 

“What brings you here, sir?” he asks swiftly. "It is we who should be honored, for I doubt a friend of the great prince should have much cause to attend to us here." He gives a significant look at Talagand as he grips Telvo's shoulder even tighter, like he always does when he is afraid. 

"I come here out of concern, if you would permit me to call it that," Talagand says, all smiles. “Forgive me if I am indelicate— I merely wished to make sure you were well. Your brothers I have less worry for, but you, the last of the house, under these circumstances… I would say I worry for your wellbeing.”

“And which  _ circumstances  _ would those be, Master Talagand?” Ambarto tilts up his chin, the very picture of defensive insolence. It’s rare that Telvo sees him like this.

“I shall put it in plainer words, then.” Talagand pauses, making a show of adjusting his robes and clearing his throat loudly. It is the same thing Káno does when he means to attract attention at an improvised performance: the expressive motions, the tuning of his instrument. In this case, the instrument seems to be his voice. 

“I worry for you, my princes, and keep an almost fatherly concern for you, because you are sure to suffer from an obvious lack of it. The nature of the parent has a hand in determining the nature of the children, does it not? And behold the consequences of Curufinwë’s nature on his sons.” The elf turns his back on them, now facing the audience that has gathered before him. Some are muttering angrily; others nod in agreement. “Look at your brothers, running wild in the forests, singing strange fey things—”

Telvo stands, his face heating up. “You will not use us as props for this  _ outrageous _ —”

“That is not the only casualty of Curufinwë’s nature, friends.” Talagand’s voice has gone deathly soft; Telvo can almost believe he pities them. But there is something in his eye, something hard and unfamiliar. He inches closer to Ambarto, the words stolen from his tongue, and Talagand continues his speech: “For is he not the chief reason for Queen Míriel’s absence? Is he not the chief reason why his sons are motherless?”

Ambarto visibly pales, and his grip on Telvo’s tunic turns to claws. The muttering turns to shouts. Talagand takes a few steps back so that he is visible to all and raises his voice.

“Indeed, the path of this house seems set upon destruction. I should not be surprised if the Sons of Fëanáro would become estranged, like to their father and uncles!” 

Their corner of the field erupts with angry words. The commotion spreads, pulling everyone to Telvo’s and Ambarto’s seats. Telvo feels suffocated, trapped between so many voices and hands and faces. From far off he sees Atar rise in a flowing wave of black and crimson and make his way to Talagand, and he and Nolofinwë unite against him until Atar turns on his brother. Telvo sees a flash of gold, Arafinwë and Nelyo trying in vain to quiet the pair of them.

“Whether or not you take responsibility for this attack, he is still your associate, and I demand that you apologize to my sons!” 

“It is not my responsibility to bow and scrape before you and your family because of the actions of another!”

“Fëanáro, Nolo, no one is suggesting—”

What to do? Should they join the fighting, or seek out the king straight away? Surely Nelyo will know what to do. He reaches out for Ambarto, but his twin is unmoving; he sees the tears on his cheek and his red eyes, and shock slams into him. 

“Ambarto?” he says, voice high, panicked, all thoughts of glory and dignity gone because Ambarto is  _ crying _ , how  _ dare _ they, what have they done—? “Ambarto, look at me.” 

“I can’t do this,” his brother chokes out. “I’m not—”

What he is not Telvo never gets to hear, because the next thing he knows Ambarto has knocked aside his chair and is disappearing into the trees. 

“ _ Ambarto! _ ” Telvo screams, barely audible above the  _ battle _ that seems to have taken over the entire field. Nevertheless people flock to the sound of his voice, blocking out his view of the forest. 

“Look, there he is!”

“—heard rumors that their mother—”

“My prince, is it true what he says?” asks the nearest person, catching him by the arm. 

“What do you  _ think _ ?” he snaps and shoves them away. There are too many; do none of them realize Ambarto has gone missing? 

“Stars preserve us,  _ back away from the prince! _ ” 

Olórin sweeps an arm between Telvo and the crowd. Sharp white light flashes from his hand, and they all flinch back, momentarily blinded. When Telvo’s vision is back, the Maia stands above him, his robe flowing down from his shoulders, a grey curtain between him and the rest of the world. 

“Maia Olórin,” he stammers out. He is so tall, and Telvo is so small and shaky. 

Olórin tilts his head and gives him a peculiar look. “Run along now, young one,” he says softly. “I think it would be quite the adventure.” 

Telvo does not need to be told twice. He nods once,  _ yes I will go get him I will not fail _ , and scrambles to his feet. The shouts are already a faraway ring in his ears, and the wind drags invisible fingers through his hair. He thinks he can hear someone, one of his brothers, calling him, but he does not look back. He never looks back. 

_ Glad _ , is his last coherent thought.  _ I am definitely glad he was here _ . 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter contains some non-graphic mentions of blood. If you'd rather not see that, please skip three paragraphs when the light appears.  
> (If you'd really like to get in the mood while reading this part, try [this song!](youtube.com/watch?v=P6btN_cdLfE))

For the first time, there is no light.

All trace of it has disappeared. Even when he looks to the sky, he sees nothing but leaves. The branches are interlocked, stacked against each other, as if the trees themselves want to keep it out. Beneath this thick canopy, the leaves have withered and curled inwards, the trunks and the ground have bleached and turned a silent, empty grey. Already Telvo can feel the color seeping out of his skin. 

_What kind of forest kills itself like this_? 

_Cursed_ , answers some long-buried part of his mind, a voice that only he can hear. _Not itself, not itself_. 

He twists around, and the dead vines creep after him, always behind his back, hissing against the broken leaves like so many snakes. The branches hang down over his head, then snap back into position when he looks at them. 

Telvo isn’t completely stupid; he knows the way back to the meadow, made sure to memorize it when he first threw himself into this place looking for Ambarto. In theory, the way back to Atar is between these two trees, around that rotting rose-bush. _In theory_ , Ambarto went in this direction, and if he follows his path it should eventually lead him to his twin. It’s simple logic, in no way colored by his emotions— he refuses to call it fear, knowing it will multiply as soon as it is named. 

Suddenly, simple logic seems like a very fragile thing. 

He cannot see the clearing now, cannot hear the quarreling that seemed to fill his whole world back at the tables. He shivers. The forest grins down at him, opening holes and hollow _mouths_ as it sharpens its branches. Scritch-scratch, the sound of Tyelko’s blade on his whetstone before he goes hunting. Scritch-scratch, the sound of claws on claws. 

His throat closes up. How long has he been in this place? How long has he been standing still? Too long. Too long, and Ambarto could have gone anywhere by now. 

His boots no longer sound the steady grounding beat of leather on stone. Instead, they slip and slide across the wet leaves— and where did the water come from?— as puddles form behind him that he does not remember seeing seconds ago. He loses his balance and falls into the mud several times, but he would rather die than support himself from one of the trees.

There is a rhythm to the sounds of the forest, a slow ancient heartbeat that calls to him from somewhere between the roots, never close enough and never far away. He looks down and realizes his feet are following the same beat, his own heart. 

He tries to raise his hand, but something else says to him _no, not now, wait until the next sound_. He tries to spin, but his feet are set in stone. 

“Ambarto,” he chokes out through air thick enough to block his mouth. “ _Ambarto!_ ” 

He screams this name, and Tyelko’s, and finally Atar’s until his throat is sore. He runs, no longer out of desire but out of some dark compulsion, the mechanical heartbeat-music in his ears. Someone will come for him. Someone has to find them both. They wouldn’t leave him here. They will come for him someday—

He cannot wait for _someday_. With a desperate shout he throws himself to the ground, then lies there, silent and shaking. The trees stand solid and patient, taller than the towers back home, taller than anything he has ever seen, a mountain that wades in the sea and has its head above the clouds. 

_Why do you struggle so?_ they whisper to him, and immediately he forces himself to relax, and an odd calm comes over him. _That’s better. Now, wait for us to come for you_. 

The roots begin to move in front of him, more daring now that he is frozen. He can only watch, helpless, as they begin to twine around his ankles, so gentle at first—

_Stay there, little princeling_ . The voice deepens, becoming low and harsh and not of this world, a thing that fills up every corner of his mind and at the same time tears at it with teeth of steel, leaving him terrifyingly empty. _Stay on the ground and wait!_

He can’t even move his fingers anymore, hasn’t blinked in several seconds. _How can you fight when you cannot move_? A memory comes to him, chunks of ice melting in hot water, the marble floors of the forge burning with daylight. Huan sits beside Tyelko as he tells them all Lord Oromë’s stories of the woods. 

_The music of the woods can be dangerous, if you let it into your head. And when that happens you must block it out, Telvo, you must think of some music of your own. The only way not to lose yourself in these forests is to know your music_ … 

His own music. Well, his family’s should be good enough. Telvo screws his eyes shut and tries to concentrate on a recent composition of Káno’s, a silly, almost defiantly flippant melody that’s easy to fall into. He recalls the sound of Ambarto’s laughter and the fire burning in the dining room at home, the time they all visited the sea and Nelyo invented a new game, so bright and carefree that he hardly believed he was the same person. 

The roots pause in their assault. Encouraged, Telvo starts humming Káno’s song out loud, and the trees recoil from it, their black branches shivering in the wind. Leaves part overhead; a single ray of silver light reaches down with spindly fingers to bathe him in itself. 

The imaginary scene in front of him becomes clearer as he starts thinking up more details. The way Curvo smiles with one corner of his mouth higher than the other, Atar’s habit of making strange, low noises in his sleep. The way Ambarto had held his hand back in the hallway, hours ago— or was it days ago? He cannot tell, but he still knows the exact sound they made as they walked together of their own will.

He finishes the last verse of the song, and the forest falls silent before him. The light follows him as he pulls himself to his feet. 

“ _Ambarto_ ,” he calls, his voice louder than any child’s has the right to be. 

He calls, and he hears an answer. 

Relief almost ties him down to the ground again, but he summons one last surge of strength to change direction, pointing his feet at a fallen tree nearby. It is hollow, and within it he sees a flash of red: Ambarto’s hair. 

He dives down, skids forward on his knees and into Ambarto’s arms. They collide, Telvo’s form knocking his brother’s back into the tree trunk, and he lets himself go limp. The forest stops being a forest and starts being their shared bedroom, filled with fire-light and their laughter. 

“Telvo—” Ambarto gasps. “I thought you’d never find me.”

Telvo thinks of the way the forest tried to swallow him up, and how long Ambarto might have been down here. He pulls him closer. “It’s alright now,” he keeps saying. “It’s alright.” 

“We can go back now,” Telvo says, and Ambarto goes very still. Telvo frowns, pulls back a little so that he can see his twin’s face. It is like looking in a mirror— as a matter of fact there are no mirrors in their room, they are so constantly aware of what they look like— except for the tear tracks upon his red cheeks. 

He had thought these tears had come out of loneliness and fright for the dark. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, even as the dread comes creeping into his stomach again, slipping twigs into his veins. “Do you not _want_ to go back?”

Ambarto’s face is a mirror of his, and so Telvo recognizes his brother’s frightful agreement straight away from the shape of the lines between his eyebrows, the way he bites the inside of his lip. 

“I can’t do this,” Ambarto says hollowly, echoing their earlier conversation, if you could even call if that. “I’m not— Telvo,” he bursts out, and Telvo scoots closer, eager despite himself to hear what it is he meant to say. 

“I’m not one of them. I’m not special, I don’t feel like I deserve to be counted among them and our brothers, Telvo you must understand they are so beautiful and I am _nothing_ and I can only wait for us to fall apart!” 

Ambarto inhales sharply, his chest heaving. 

Nothing. You are nothing, you are useless. Somehow the words, which Telvo has used against his own mind enough times to grow slightly attached to them, are nothing but hateful when his twin applies to himself. He grips Ambarto’s shoulder tightly, their roles somehow reversed from earlier. 

“You are not _nothing_ ,” he hisses, then softens his voice again— he really must do something about it, or he will end up sounding angry all the time. “Listen to me very carefully, Ambarto. I have been worrying for months and months about not living up to _you_. You are—” he falters. 

“What am I, then?” 

“You are the best brother one could ask for,” he finishes, rather gruffly, turning away from him. This is ridiculous. A few minutes ago he was braving the wild by himself, and now he is too shy to compliment his brother to his face. To change the subject, he asks, “What did you mean by _wait for us to fall apart_?” 

A shadow passes over Ambarto’s face. “I… I guessed we would. I was thinking about it, in the garden…” 

“Please don’t lie to me.” Telvo gives a crooked smile at Ambarto’s look of shock. “I can always tell. We make the same face when we do it.” 

Ambarto pauses and looks down, picking at a torn leaf in the ground with his hands. Telvo doesn’t rush him, though they should be on their way back by now. The woods have gone into that strange quiet again, the waiting silence. 

Telvo stands suddenly, torn between asking Ambarto to hurry and waiting for him to finish thinking. They have gotten lost in this manner several times, but it was always in the city. This place is dangerous. _But is the clearing not more so?_ There they risk shaming their family. At least here they are alone and unbothered. For the first time, Telvo realizes with a shock, he does not _want_ to go home.

Then, “I went to the House of Memory before Curvo,” Ambarto says, and Telvo’s world crumbles all over again. 

“You _what_?” 

“Don’t make me say it again!” his brother cries. “I’m ashamed enough as it is.” 

“You ought to be! You know all they tell you there is lies— what were you _thinking_ ? The single most dangerous place in all Aman, and you had to go there—” Another, horrible thought occurs to Telvo, and he flings his arms apart. “You had to go there _alone_! You idiot, you know who runs that place!”

Atar’s words. He is copying another again. Will any of his words ever truly be his own? What does he have that is original? 

“Do you think I would go there without reason?” Ambarto kicks at the ground as he stands. “You know, everything they say about it is true. Melkor does live there.” 

Telvo reels back at the name and the way it is thrown about, so casually, as if his brother is mentioning a friend. Wind whistles, closing the leaf-canopy over their heads again, and he watches as the color leeches from Ambarto’s hair, turning it the color of dried blood on a marble floor: a slip of the hand while crafting, an accident during dinner. 

“He told me so many things, brother, and they do know everything there. Do you know, they have a share of Lady Vairë’s tapestries? Do you know what they told me?” His brother pauses for breath, wiping his eyes furiously. “ _He_ told me I would _burn_ . He told me our family was _doomed to suffer forever!_ ”

Ambarto screams the last four words, jarring against the silent forest, and then trembles and sits down heavily, as if they have taken all the strength out of him. 

“And I thought— and I thought, what is the use of being Atya’s son if I can do nothing to stop it? What is the use of being in this family if all it will come to is pain? And then that Talagand person said what he said, about us turning out like Atya and Nolofinwë, and I knew I had seen him in the House. It was all too much, and I thought about running away…” 

“You don’t want to go back.” 

“I can’t face everyone like this, and—” His twin freezes in place, his eyes fixed on some point behind them. “I don’t think we can go back, Telvo.” 

Telvo whirls and sees nothing but a wall of darkness. At some point in their conversation, it has built itself up around them, so that it is far over their heads by now. Telvo can see it thickening, growing jagged spikes that encircle them, following their every movement. Thorns. 

The forest has not been waiting. It has been _building_. 

“Careful!” Ambarto shouts, and pulls him roughly to his side. Telvo yelps and sees solid black branches, almost as hard as stones, where his head would have been. 

They turn around over and over again, waiting in vain for an opening. 

Within the ring of thorns, everything is distorted: Telvo looks down at his own hand and feels a stinging pain, as if he has been cut. The sound of his footsteps transforms into the sound of swords on swords, something he has never heard before. He reaches out for Ambarto; his hand seems to go straight through his brother. 

The voice that had commanded him to stay still starts to speak again, this time even louder: _You cannot run now, princeling_. The wall advances, swirling around them like a storm, and he feels the tips of the spikes touch his back. He seizes Ambarto, wrapping his arms around him. If he is lucky, the forest will have him and leave his brother alone. If he is lucky, Ambarto will make it out. 

He is bargaining, asking for mercy where there is none. None of them will survive this. 

They will die here, just like the Moriquendi who perished in the dark forests of Endor, neri and nissi eaten alive by the forest, another cautionary tale for those in Aman. Telvo squeezes his eyes shut, braces himself for the last pain—

There is a mighty _crash_ , and then a voice, not inside his head. “ _For Oromë!_ ”

Light, sudden, glorious white light pours down on them through the new crack in the wall, and Telvo looks up in astonishment as Tyelko strikes out at the dark mass with a familiar golden sword. It shatters, sending thousands of crystal pieces flying over their heads. Some of them lash out at Telvo’s back, but in seconds they dissolve, harmless, against his tunic. 

The darkness reforms, no longer in the shape of thorns or anything remotely plant-like: it soars into the air above the three of them like a mighty bird with steel feathers and a tail of black ink. Tyelko adjusts his grip on his sword, and his enemy lets out a high terrible call like steel scraping against glass. 

Blue-black flames lick the air from their perch on the thing’s back. Tyelko shouts a wordless challenge as it swoops down on him, and hard claws ring out against Atar’s best blade. 

If not for the sword and his own decorations upon its hilt, Telvo would not believe this is truly Tyelko. He is boundless: slipping between the creature’s talons like running water, stabbing its side and face and eyes so many times that by the time he jumps back his blade is covered in blood the color of ink. When he raises the sword to deliver a final stroke upon its neck, Telvo sees not his bumbling brother but the one whose name he invoked, the Vala Oromë himself come to take back his woods. 

The creature gives that horrific shriek again, and Telvo buries his face in Ambarto’s shoulder as it flies straight above their heads, its body once again scattered into a cloud of stones and feathers.

Tyelko keeps his eyes fixed upon the dark shape as it flees, making sure it has gone away. The light in his eyes fades; gone is the vengeful lord, replaced by the familiar face and form of their brother.

They are still welded together, Telvo and Ambarto, but they manage to pry their fingers from each other’s arms eventually. Once they are apart, they throw themselves into Tyelko’s open arms, ignoring the dirt and blood. 

“Is anyone hurt?” Tyelko is saying, running gloved hands over their backs and faces. “Are you both alright? Are you hurt?”

“How- how long has it been?” Telvo’s voice comes out muffled against the front of Tyelko’s tunic. It is green; he must have changed before he came to get them. 

“Several hours. Everyone is worried sick. How you shocked me, Ambarussa! Were you brave or stupid, to run blindly into the wild like that?” 

_Ambarussa_. Tyelko never uses his brothers’ mother-names unless he is well and truly distressed. Telvo realizes, with a pang of guilt, how the others must have felt when they ran away. 

“More of the latter. I’m sorry,” he replies, and then he hugs Tyelko again, unable to help himself.

“I will be having _words_ with that Maia,” Tyelko vows as he strokes their hair. “Do you know, he insisted you were perfectly capable of navigating these parts alone? An adventure, he called it! He had no idea of what this place had turned into. Atya was _furious_.” 

“Olórin meant well,” Telvo protests. He thinks of how strong he had felt when he sang his family’s music, how proud he was when he found Ambarto at last.

“Meant well? Ha! Everyone means well. Which reminds me— you, Pityo.” Ambarto pokes his head out of Tyelko’s cloak, his eyes wide and innocent. “Don’t give me that _look_. What were you thinking, to leave in such a hurry in the first place? You could have told me, and I would have gone home with you, and everyone could have been perfectly happy!”

Ambarto mumbles an apology. 

“A little too late, Pityo. Ai, is it really this hour?” Tyelko exclaims, and pulls them up, one at a time, by their hands. “We’ve got to go home. The sooner we get back, the sooner we can forget all this…” 

Telvo is just about to agree and follow him when Ambarto’s hand slips into his. He frowns and tilts his head. “What’s wrong?”

Ambarto simply points at the sky. “Look.”

Telvo does. In the absence of that shadow, they can see the woods as they are meant to be, and for the first time he lets himself appreciate their true beauty. The twist of the branches look artful and not eerie now that their colors have returned, and the whispering of the leaves feels soothing. Light falls from open places between the leaves in thin, solid beams, painting the ground in black and gold. 

The entire place radiates mystery, adventure, but above all _comfort_ , a place to rest and run to instead of from.

_Do we have to leave?_ The thought enters his mind out of nowhere, and he recoils from it at first— of course they must leave, it is dangerous here— but whatever made it this way in the first place has disappeared, and it’s obvious that Ambarto still needs some time away from the rest of the family. 

Telvo thinks of what awaits him at home: hours of questioning, a watered-down version of Atar’s famed wrath, whispered confessions from Káno that no, they are not worth his attention at all. _In fact, so do I_. 

“Tyelko,” he says. “Could we stay a little longer?”

The lake is lovely, blue and glass-smooth, and it is just for them. 

“You children will be the death of me,” Tyelko groans as he flings himself onto the ground, trailing idle fingers through the shallow water. 

“We know you do not want to go home, either,” Ambarto pipes up behind him. “Think of how everyone will fuss over us.” 

They have been arguing like this for a while now, but it is all just empty words: the forest has infused their minds with an undeniable sense of peace and calm, like a soft blanket over their thoughts, as if it wants to make up for the spectacle earlier. 

Telvo sets down the fallen branches he has been carrying. They’ve reached a compromise: they will stay here for the rest of the night, and then go home first thing in the morning. To sleep here they will need a fire, but Tyelko did not want to harm the trees, so Telvo gathered dry leaves as they walked. 

Time passes in silence for the most part. Occasionally one of them will hear a strange noise and run closer to the now merrily crackling fire, or put a hand to his sword if it is Tyelko. Having nothing to play with, Ambarto and Telvo grow curious about the blade, and Tyelko teaches them a few blocks with sticks and stones. 

"You know, you two have a talent for this," he tells Ambarto. "Perhaps I can teach you archery as well." 

"We almost killed you the last time you tried," Telvo points out, kicking his heels against the dirt. 

Tyelko huffs. "That is on Curvo, not me. How was I to know his targets are so flimsy?"

"How was _I_ to know you would be standing right behind them?" 

"Ambarussa the Hunters." Ambarto says the words slowly, as if he is examining the taste of them on his tongue. "It does sound much better than Ambarussa the Twins. Doesn't it, Telvo?" 

"Oh." Telvo drops his stick. "I- I'm so sorry, Pityo. I never thought about how you would feel about it-"

"And I ran off into the wild without saying anything to you." Ambarto has been lounging on a pile of pebbles at the water's edge, somehow making it look comfortable, but now he bounces upright like a spring, brushing tangled hair out of his face. "I am the one who should apologize. I never got to, for running off and for-"

His voice trails off, and Telvo realizes Tyelko still does not know about the House of Memory. 

"Ah," he says, eloquently. 

Ambarto lets out a strange, forced laugh. "And now I've made all of us run away from home as well. I put us all in harm's way." He stands up and throws his stick into the water. It floats back up straightaway, and Telvo watches, bemused, as his brother seemingly curses the stick for recovering so quickly. 

" _Properties of wood,_ my foot," Ambarto mutters darkly, and starts throwing stones instead, punctuating each of his words with a small splash. "I am such a _coward_ -"

"That is quite enough of that!" Tyelko snatches a stone out of Ambarto's hand. "For one thing, you are disturbing the water; for another, I will not _stand_ for such self-loathing here in front of me."

"I'm only speaking the truth!"

"You panicked, and that is in no way your fault!" Tyelko exhales loudly. "Stories. Why don't we have— a story?"

"A story?" Telvo says, incredulous. "We haven't had stories since we were _babies_." 

"We are going to _have one now_ ." Tyelko points at the fire. "Go. Sit. And don't even think about blaming yourself for what happened back there, or I _will_ throw you into the water."

Having witnessed Tyelko personally defeat what seemed like a servant of the Dark Vala earlier, they decide not to risk it and run to their little campsite. Tyelko makes a show of sitting down, clearing his throat loudly and crossing his legs. He even takes the trouble to light a small stick with the fire and wave it under his face. Telvo finds himself smiling.

"This is the story of how an Elda had an adventure," his brother begins in a staged whisper, "and found himself doing things altogether unexpected in the woods of Endor, the Land of Shadow and Song..." 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go everyone :D

_The Tale of Finwë and the Light of the West_ , as told by Tyelkormo Turkafinwë.

Now long ago in Endor, in a time when none had ever seen the light of Valinor in the west, there lived a child of the Quendi with dark eyes and a knack for finding trouble. He dwelt on the shore of Cuiviénen, the Water of Awakening, a lake so vast that it had currents like the sea, and so clear that it brightened the starlight as it reflected it; truly it is said that in those days the light of Varda the Blessed shone not from above, but from beneath the feet of our ancestors. 

The name of the child was Finwë, and Finwë is now the name of a great king and hero-

(“That’s our grandfather!” Ambarto interrupts. He nudges Telvo beneath Tyelko’s cloak, which they have made into a makeshift blanket. “That’s the king, Telvo!”)

Yes, yes, we know he is, Pityo. As I was saying, Finwë would become known as a hero of the Journey, but in that time there was no Journey in our history and no kings among our people, and Grandfather was but a little child with too much curiosity for his own good.

You see, the Quendi in Cuiviénen did not stay near to it purely of their own will. Even in these ancient days, there were tales among our kind, and they all told that those who strayed far from the lake met miserable ends, trapped and alone in the dark forests. And they were whispers of fates terrible than all these: of Quendi taken by another, unknown power and changed into something frightening and unnatural. Those of us who are in Valinor shall never find out if those rumors are true.

Ai, yes, I see you shivering. Imagine the children for whom this was not a mere story, imagine their fear! For most of them, this terror was enough to make them stay in sight of the lake and remember to put stones underneath their sheets at night to ward off the darkness, and they stayed put through the long nights and never dreamed of adventure, for adventure meant to them peril and certain death. 

But Finwë was different: he would stay outside, and he would dare to sing out loud. And when he sang, a trace of light stronger than that of the faint stars over Endor seemed to resonate in him, so that he was not afraid and did not understand why his friends were. 

(“Is it like Káno’s music?” Telvo asks. “Is that why he acts so strange sometimes?” 

“But we’ve heard Káno’s music, Telvo, and there isn’t much light in them,” Ambarto points out. “Half his lyrics don’t make sense, and the other half aren’t pleasant.”)

Oh, be quiet, both of you! This isn’t the time to speculate about Káno’s scribblings. See, you’ve ruined my concentration. Where was I again?... Yes, yes, Grandfather did not know why the others held such fear, and he could not comprehend them. This would lead him to make several important decisions which in that time seemed rash and unwise, but without his adventure our history may have never been the same.

On a chilly winter’s night, there came upon the Quendi a time of great suffering. The snow came down and painted the forest white, and the lake froze over so that it would no longer reflect the stars. For in Endor the winds and storms of Lord Ulmo are wild and careless, and have grown cruel tempers of their own. Then the Lords of the Darkness seized their chance and spread their influence ever closer to Cuiviénen; and ere that winter ended they had snatched away a dozen among the youth of the Quendi straight from their homes and their beds. 

(“No!” Ambarto gasps. 

Telvo draws the cloak tighter about their shoulders. “Is there no way of knowing what happened to them?”)

No, there is none unless we go back, and you know none of us would really do that. Now, among those who had been taken was a great friend of our Finwë; and it shattered his heart to know he had disappeared. The world seemed much too big to face alone without him. For a while he wandered the shores of the lake, lamenting over his lost friend Elwë-

(“Elwë?” Telvo pops out of the cloak. “The same Elwë they lost during the Great Journey?”

"But they say he lives yet!" Ambarto insists. "They say, they say one of the Maiar saved him.")

No, I am not even going to acknowledge you anymore after this. You should know better than to interrupt one of my masterpieces, little brother, especially during such a serious part! Yes, it was Elwë whom he lost, Elwë whom he loved; and for a time Finwë drifted aimlessly on the shore of the lake until he could only sing songs of mourning, and it seemed that the far-away light in his music was drowned in the depths of the shadow. 

But in time the snow and ice melted away, and the ground became safe to walk on once again. Then Finwë decided to venture into the forest around Cuiviénen and find Elwë, and rescue him if he could. “Even if he lies cold and still in the deepest depths of Utumno itself, I shall find a way to give him a proper farewell,” he cried; and those who heard him shrank away and pitied him, thinking he had gone mad. But they did not know that the fire of his heart had then been rekindled. 

It was on a cold, clear spring day that Finwë set out to find his friend. Now mark you, brothers, this is not the spring that you and I know. As Finwë trudged through the melting snow and into the forest, he saw that all the leaves had been locked inside the branches as an act of protection from the Lady Yavanna; and the ends of those twisted branches were swollen and weighed down with years’ worth of leaves that were never to see light. Spring here meant only the growing of these bulbs. Then Finwë shivered, and came back to himself, and fear dogged his footsteps, twining thin fingers around his ankles to pull him down-

(“Fear does not have _fingers_ ,” Telvo scoffs. “And if something wanted to pull him down, wouldn’t it easiest to do that by grabbing his hair?”)

Ai, would you _shut up,_ Telvo? _I_ am telling the story here. If I say fear has fingers, you had better believe it does! And it did very much wrap icy fingers around his ankles, so that Finwë’s eyes drifted down to the shadows that wreathed the forest. These shadows were such formidable things that they had voices of their own, and in the ancient days they would whisper into the ears of the Quendi and lead them straight into _deadly peril_. 

Despite knowing of all these dangers, Finwë decided to go on and seek his friend, but he might have turned back if he had known what terrible things he was about to face. As he went further from Cuiviénen and the starlight, the darkness grew thicker until his eyes were all but useless. He could only feel his way through the trees, for even his ears began to deceive him. He would hear music and the sound of his friend’s voice, and then he would be knee-deep in a freezing pool and almost drowning. 

Two days passed in this manner, although our Finwë did not know it, and eventually his hope was overcome and turned to anger. It was with a bitter heart and loathing of his own light that he turned back at last, and he cursed his music as he walked, thinking the world a harsh and uncaring place. So great was his despair that he did not notice the voices in his ears: the shadow had begun to speak to him, leading him further and further away from home.

When it released him, Finwë found himself standing in front of a swamp, surrounded by dead willow-trees that trailed unfeeling leaves after his head. Frustrated, he kicked at a rock in the ground and tried in vain to make a fire. The wind blew on his wet clothes; our child shivered. So very small he was, and so vast the wilderness, and he could not even see the stars and comfort himself. He took to singing lullabies for himself, thinking he could not be overheard.

But something _had_ been listening all the while, and it was as the first sparks of his fire fizzled into life that the rock opened five huge, black, hungry eyes behind his back-

(Tyelko lunges toward them, and the firelight seems to cast his shadow on the entire wood. The dark shape ripples and twists, a snake coiling back to strike. Telvo screams and ducks under the blanket. Ambarto shouts, a little more coherently, “ _No! Stop!”)_

_Stop_? Ha! Would you rather never find out what happened to the child after that? So many things that could have happened to him. He could have been eaten, he could have been taken away, he might never have beheld the light of our lords. And you, Pityo, you… your little mind will be left with the agony of not knowing if he ever escaped!

(In theory, Telvo knows that Finwë must have escaped, for he led the Eldar during the Journey. In practice, he joins Ambarto in casting back the blanket and begging Tyelko to continue. 

“Please tell us more,” he cries, and Tyelko lets out a deep laugh, spreading his arms wide.)

So you would dare to continue on! My audience is brave. But would they remain so brave, I wonder, if they were to see that Finwë saw in that hour? 

It was a ferocious creature that looked like a serpent but had four monstrous legs, with heads the size of my entire body and fangs as long as swords and as cold as ice. Any one of these had enough venom in them to turn this whole lake black, and indeed black was its body, and the long tail that it dragged across the forest floor as it advanced toward Finwë. It did not speak to him, and could not; it only reached out with horrid claws that dripped with dark slime, and with nothing but greed and joy in its many eyes it lifted him slowly off the ground.

Finwë, being a hopeful soul, attempted to reason with him even as it brought him nearer to that foul mouth. But it only smiled, baring rows upon rows of these jagged teeth, for it knew somewhere in its tiny mind that there was no way that Finwë could escape. 

And that would indeed have been the end of Finwë, if something else had not appeared from between the trees. The beast turned, thinking this newcomer meant to challenge him for the Elda, and with an almighty _CRASH-_

(Tyelko brings his sword down on the rocks, and the resulting sound echoes for what seems like a lifetime as Telvo clutches at the inside of the cloak.)

Ai, stars save me, I’ve broken the blade again… with an almighty _crash_ the creature went flying, and Finwë was released from its grip and fell to the ground. From there he watched, astonished, as the light that had come upon it changed shape until it had the form of a great warrior upon a horse, whose spear glowed white and whose eyes were the color of the bottom of a waterfall. 

A feeling of great calm fell over Finwë. He crept into the shelter of the ferns as the warrior stood over the beast. When it finally rose up, it did so with great fury and a roar that shook the ground; but the warrior did not move, and struck at it again and again, driving it away from the child. 

At first it seemed the light had the upper hand, but suddenly the black creature rose up with great vigor, imbued with a spirit of malice larger than itself. It drove its teeth into the warrior’s side, and the light dimmed, and the shadows came crawling back out of the wood. Then Finwë distracted it, throwing rocks and hard words alike, and while the creature’s back was turned the warrior struck at it again; then the creature exploded into black mist and fled, hissing, over the dark trees.

The warrior of light reached down to help Finwë up, and Finwë took his hand and gave him many thanks. But his rescuer was silent, and squinting into the light of his eyes Finwë asked him what he was.

“It is not yet time to know, young one,” he said, speaking in a voice that was at once sharp and soothing. Then he made a move to leave. But Finwë held on tight to his wrist, for his curious streak had revived now that the danger was gone. He would not stop pestering him until the light gave him his answer, and the answer was this:

“I am one of the spirits that reign in the West, where I will come to take you shortly. We are not of your kind, and possess more knowledge than your elders. Three of us keep records of everything that will ever be, and one knows it all in his mind.”

“Then do you know where my friend is?” cried Finwë in renewed hope. 

A shadow seemed to fall over the face of the warrior, and he replied: “Your friend’s fate lies mired in shadow, young one, and the dark power has hidden it from me. But mark my words” —seeing the grief of Finwë written on his face— “even if he is dead, you shall meet in the end.”

“How is that to be?” the child asked him. 

Then the warrior, being most generous, decided to give to him the knowledge of Mandos. He revealed to our grandfather that even in death, our kind may not be parted, for the dead among the Quendi do not leave this world, and are all reunited in the Halls of Mandos in Aman. 

Finwë’s spirits rose again, for in those days death was near to all, and the prospect of seeing his lost kin again lessened some of his fear of it. For a second time he thanked the warrior, who dissolved once again into golden light and vanished, telling him to wait for the day when he would return. 

(Tyelko’s voice has softened. He pronounces the words with rhythm, as if the story is a song. As Telvo watches, he sits down again in front of the fire and gazes into the burning sticks, as if he is thinking deeply of things long past.

Ambarto yawns; all the history has bored him. He leans against his brother’s shoulder, almost nuzzling, and Telvo smiles and lets him.)

The road was long, the wood was dark, but no shadow dared touch Finwë while the hope in his heart burned so brightly, and the wind sighed with relief in the branches as he came once more to the waters of Cuiviénen. Those who beheld him then would later agree that he had changed during his time in the wild: he was more sure of himself and even more curious, and he would always linger on the edge of the forest, waiting for Vala Oromë to come once more. 

And that is the tale of how Finwë saw the Light of Valinor, and became the first among the Quendi to learn of our fates after death; and that is how the Great Journey started, with a forest and a rescue quite like the one I have just given you. 

You want to go to sleep? Ai, Pityo, if you sleep like this your back will hurt in the morning. Come on, put my cloak down here. You too, Telvo. There, see? Much more comfortable.

(“Tyelko, will you sing us to sleep?” Telvo asks on a whim. Káno has never done it for them, and all his drowsy mind can think right now is _we deserve something good, if we are meant to suffer_.)

Of course, little brother, but be warned. After all, this is the lullaby that Finwë sang to himself before he met the Shadow in the forest, and we all know our king's _unique_ style of composing… 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath, and some good healthy communication with a touch of foreshadowing.

The night hangs heavy and numbing over his mind, but Telvo cannot bring himself to sleep. He tosses fitfully in their makeshift bed. Each new position only brings new stabbing points of discomfort, the edges of the rocks beneath poking at his legs and arms and back. Ambarto has a habit of hogging the blanket, which would not have been an issue back at home, but out here in the wild Telvo has to steal back his end of the cloak regularly to keep from going cold. 

Though he supposes he shouldn’t blame everything on their lack of a bed. He, too, is at fault: every time he tries to empty his head, new thoughts come flooding in. He goes over the events of the day over and over again until half of him is convinced that it didn’t happen.

The other half is concerned with much less pleasant matters. 

Telvo worries at the inside of his lip, and his hands ball up into fists as he thinks. He spent hours agonizing over his own nerves when he could have talked to Ambarto and made sure it was alright; he did nothing to improve himself while envying the results of his brothers’ hard work. In the garden, he was nothing but rude to Ambarto when he should have asked about his troubles in turn. He could have confronted Káno, but he has never had the strength for it. 

_ Stupid, stupid, stupid _ . When Talagand spoke, when he had finally gotten that opportunity to prove himself, he could have chosen to do anything other than  _ run away _ . He should have gotten help. He should have taken someone with him. Instead he put both of them in danger, forced Tyelko to fight that thing—

_ Tyelko _ . Telvo throws the cloak off his shoulders and makes to get up, but he and Ambarto are still wrapped around each other and his twin stirs when he moves. 

“Telvo…?” Ambarto’s eyes are still shut, his face loose like he’s still asleep. He is peaceful, so at odds with the boy who was shouting at the lake earlier.

Telvo squeezes his brother’s shoulder. “It’s alright,” he whispers. “Go back to sleep…” 

Tyelko is still looking into the fire, feeding it a twig or a crushed leaf whenever it flickers in the wind; his right hand rests on his knee. Telvo watches the flames, his curiosity suddenly piqued. The fires in the corridors at home can never be put out by the wind alone; Atar has to want them to stop. 

He clears his throat. 

Tyelko jumps up, gripping his sword loosely in his hand, the blade pointed straight at Telvo. Telvo flinches back, shocked despite himself. His brother has explained to him, so many times, how it’s hard to relax after a fight, but it is one thing to hear about it and another to experience it firsthand. Thankfully he doesn’t have to endure it for long; Tyelko sees his hands in the air and drops the sword immediately, opening his arms, gentle, inviting. 

“Ai, Telvo, I’m sorry. I didn’t— agh!”

“You’re hurt!” Telvo rushes to his brother’s side as his fighting posture crumbles. He sits down heavily, a dark stain growing on the knees of his trousers. 

“Don’t wake Pityo.” Tyelko points at him, mimicking Nelyo’s  _ listen-to-me-now _ voice. “I’ll be fine.”

“I knew it,” Telvo whispers. “I thought I saw it hit you, but I brushed it off— and now—”

Guilt gnaws at his insides, and he bites back new tears and takes off Tyelko’s boot. His brother rolls up the trouser leg, sighing as if in defeat.

It is so much worse than he imagined it would be. Tyelko’s perfectly tanned skin is marred by a cluster of cuts, which drip blood before his eyes. Telvo forces himself to look.  _ This is my fault _ , he thinks. “This is  _ my fault _ ,” he cries, and shakes his head. “I had to check on you. I thought I saw that black thing hit you when you fought it, and I couldn’t go to sleep until I knew you were alright.”  _ But you aren’t alright, you aren’t fine and this is all my fault _ —

“One’s wounds, I thought the story had gotten rid of all that,” Tyelko groans. “I don’t want you staying up because of your all-consuming guilt, Telvo. I want you sleeping peacefully, as soon as possible, yes?”

Telvo cringes. “I’m sorry. I’ll go now.”

“No, no.” Tyelko holds up a hand and lets out a frustrated huff. “Stars, I’m terrible at this. Nelyo is the one in charge of communication, he should have come. What do you know about healing songs, Telvo?”

“Almost nothing.” He cannot hold it in anymore. He takes Tyelko’s hand in his and glares up at him, stuffing hours of overthinking into a single look. “I know almost nothing, because our only  _ singer _ does not want to teach me.”

If Tyelko feels upset at that, he does not show it. He simply lays back on the rocks, shifts— possibly getting another bucket’s worth of dirt in his already tangled hair— and closes his eyes. “Alright. I am going to teach you a healing song, and we are going to talk about things very carefully, and you are going to start listening.”

“I have been listening.”

“Not to me, silly. Listen… what did our dear minstrel say again? Relax your shoulders, and open your ears. Listen to everything in this place.” 

Telvo takes a deep breath and closes his eyes on the exhale. He thinks of a voice only he can hear, the heartbeat of the forest in his own veins, the sound of wind through the branches that kept the king company as he passed through his first trials. The wood comes alive around him, shadows dancing with natural energy rather than as a tool of malice, and he strains his ears until he can hear every call of every bird, and then, finally, a very faint melody coming from the sky above and the stars themselves. 

_ An echo of rapture _ , the voice sighs within him.  _ Echoes of the great music, fallen so far since its start. Darkness and discord _ . _ The Swordsman, gift of the light, doomed to fail and then to master his doom _ .

“That’s it,” Tyelko coaxes. “I haven’t the slightest idea what is going on, but that looks good. Keep going…” 

He decides to focus on the star-song. It seems very near to him, now. After a few bars of tentative silence, it explodes into life in his mind, rejoicing to be heard by something with a voice. The night hums around him,  _ good, little one, now use it _ , and the birds fall silent. 

“Now,” his brother murmurs, “these are the lyrics Káno taught me, in case of any emergencies. Repeat them after me, but in the tune you  _ should _ be hearing by now…” 

Telvo’s mouth forms the shape of the words, but his voice is nowhere near close to doing the beauty of them justice. Frustration rises within him; the stars and the voice— or are they the same thing?— soothe him with a simple Word, and he keeps going. 

Then, there is a moment when he cannot remember a single note of the song. He opens his eyes, looks down at the cuts on Tyelko’s knee, and finds that they have become shallower. 

He is also, apparently, glowing. 

He nearly takes his hands off the cuts in shock— when did he even place them there? But Tyelko’s hand settles on top of his. It’s such a refreshingly simple gesture: not fearfully caring and full of secrets like the touches he exchanges with Ambarto, not corrective and mercilessly critical the way Atar likes to teach him crafting. 

“You’re doing well,” he reassures him. “Keep going.”

Telvo shuts his eyes and concentrates on the memory of his song. A few minutes pass in this comfortable silence; he never wants it to end, but he knows there are things they must talk about. 

“I wanted to be worthy,” Telvo confesses out loud. After hearing the cream-smooth water of the voice for so long, it is jarring to hear words in this language.

“Worthy?” Tyelko frowns, then hisses as a particularly deep cut begins to close up. “Worthy of what, little brother?”

“In the hallway.” Telvo takes a few seconds to force down the lump in his throat. “In the hallway, I heard Káno saying I wasn’t worth talking to. I wanted to be worthy of your attention” is all he can say before he starts to cry, little choked sobs that come slowly, as if his eyes are in denial of his tears. 

For a while he leans into his brother and lets himself fall apart. When it ends, Tyelko smooths back his hair carefully and cradles his cheek in one hand, pinning him in place with the kind of look that means he is trying to read you.

“Telvo,” he asks gently, “what do you think of our family?”

He frowns, rubs his right eye. “What do you mean?”

“Tell me what you think of us. Be honest, tell me everything. I think it may help.”

“I think…” He slumps forward, suddenly very tired; the healing has drained the remains of his strength. His mind brushes over the events of the past day one last time, too weak to highlight anything; all he can think of is a blur of crimson and grey as he marches into that clearing, surrounded by his brothers. Protected.

_ I think you are all so admirable. I can’t do anything but watch you, but I’ve watched you for a long time, and I see how hard you work. You practically raised me and Ambarto, and found time to make your own talents all the same. You are loved, and even better, you are rightfully loved. I am sure you will go down in history as the kindest and the most brilliant of the Noldoli, and I envy you because I am not enough for that and I want to be one of you _ .

“I think you are perfect” is all he says, scared of revealing everything. 

Surprisingly, Tyelko’s face breaks out into a relieved smile. “There! I knew there was something we could fix together.”

“Fix?” Telvo balks at the word.  _ Fix _ is what Atar and Curvo said back in his early days, before they finally gave up and admitted he had no talent in crafting. They would fix his posture, his grip, his sloppy strokes with the hammer and brush alike. And eventually, his younger self would think when he had space to himself, they would fix him as well. 

He remembers how Curvo had gotten down on one knee and apologized.  _ I never meant to make you feel inadequate. I’m so sorry, Telvo. I just wanted to be a good brother _ … 

_ You are a good brother _ , he’d assured him. Curvo was flawless, Atar’s brightest jewel, his mistakes few and far between. 

“No, not fix,” Tyelko corrects himself, no doubt recalling the incident as well. “Something we can work through together. You say we are perfect. What do you think, say, of Káno? You mentioned him earlier.”

He says it lightly, aiming to lessen the pressure, but Telvo stiffens, his shoulders tensing up. Káno who is harshest towards him— but no, he was never openly  _ harsh  _ until that argument with Tyelko, rather he was  _ distant _ , like the stars above the lake in Tyelko’s tale. Far away and uncaring. 

“He has a low opinion of me,” he says carefully, praying that Tyelko won’t notice the tremble in his voice. 

Tyelko snorts. It is a loud, rude, undignified sound, and oddly out of place in this situation. “First of all, no, Telvo, he does not. Second, it is not your fault that he is so utterly terrible at managing his own emotions.”

Telvo’s mouth drops open. “Tyelko!”

“More on the first point.” Tyelko’s words are picking up steam, filling him with a sort of righteous energy as he speaks. “Káno does not think lowly of you because he never interacts with you. What decent person makes judgements on someone they do not know?” Then, at Telvo’s flinch: “Ai, that must have been the wrong thing to say. But it is true, isn’t it? That Káno avoids you, does not necessarily mean he dislikes you.”

“What about what he said in the guests’ chamber?” Telvo asks through gritted teeth.  _ Are you saying all my worrying, all my nerves, they were all for nothing? _

Tyelko freezes.

“You aren’t telling me everything.” Emboldened by his brother’s silence, Telvo pushes on. “You’re keeping things from me. How can you love a person and still want nothing to do with them?”

“I think,” Tyelko replies slowly, “it’s time for you to learn Káno’s secret.”

The forest breathes in, then seems to hold still, as if even it wants to know. 

“Káno… your brother has always been an odd one,” Tyelko begins. 

Telvo scoffs and crosses his arms.  _ That’s obvious _ . 

“But I did not know what caused his strange behavior until yesterday, when you went into the garden. It’s clear you didn’t hear, but I pressed him more after hearing that frankly ridiculous excuse, and he finally told me. He’d told nobody but Nelyo, before this.”

_ Nobody but Nelyo _ . The weight of what Telvo is about to hear hits him, and he leans in closer, trying to treat it seriously. He supposes invoking Nelyo’s name has that effect on most people.

“Káno… do you remember the song of the stars, Telvo? I hear it from the trees sometimes, and you heard it when you healed me just now. Káno hears it, or claims to hear it, all the time, from everything in the world.” A pause. “He knows the future. He has the gift of the music, the gift of foresight.”

The gift of foresight. 

_ Impossible _ . 

That is the first reply on his lips, but he swallows it down as soon as he sees Tyelko’s face. How can he suspect his own brother of lying to him?

“I thought only the Valar could see the future,” he says cautiously. The words are doubtful, but not an outright denial. 

“I do not know what he heard.” The golden light strikes Tyelko’s hair and hands and face, making his cheeks glow. “I do not know if the visions will ever change, but I have seen him in private, Telvo, and he would want you to hear that he still loves you, and all that he does is to protect the two of you, you and Pityo, for he sees darkness in your path. Whatever that ‘protection’ entails, it is the reason he keeps away from you.” 

_ He told me I would burn _ , Ambarto had said.  _ He told me our family was doomed to suffer forever _ .

They stare into the lightening sky for a long time. It is a lot to take in, and he has barely gotten any sleep.  _ Atar will be even angrier _ , Telvo thinks distantly, and then:  _ it doesn’t really matter, does it? _

“Back to the point,” Tyelko continues. “Káno does not think poorly of you, and more importantly, you should not judge yourself based on how any of us would judge you, because  _ none _ of us are perfect.”

The stars disappear, swallowed up in the radiance of Laurelin, and Telvo leans back and lets himself think. 

When he and Ambarto were very young, shortly after he parted with the Lady Nerdanel, Atar took them on a camping trip all the way through the forest, through the wilds of Aman and the realm of the Vanyar. Telvo has never felt so free and wild again, all alone in the vast world with his family, their words and thoughts the only ones that mattered. 

Their final destination turned out to be Ekkaia, the Outer Sea, the edge of the world where the music of creation flowed freely and where no Elda had ever set foot before. There everyone was free to wander the beaches and sing and play and do what they liked, and there Telvo met Nelyo for the first time. 

It comes back in flashes: The sharpness of the rocks on his bare leg, the sound of his own cries that came as Káno quickly sang the wound away, leaving behind a too-big memory of pain that nothing could remove. The plain horror that wrote itself across all of his brothers’ faces but Nelyo’s, which was covered by concern and  _ determination _ . That day Nelyo spoke with Atar at night; Telvo does not remember what exactly they said, but that had been the moment when his brother decided who he would be. 

_ I will raise them with you, Atya, and you will not be alone _ , he vowed. 

Ten days later, Nelyo destroyed each one of his childhood creations and abandoned his playroom for court, putting on ill-fitting circlets that somehow made him more beautiful and becoming the prince they needed.

A prince defined by duty and worth; a brother far too young to claim such a large burden, and now one too stubborn to admit it is too much.

Perhaps they are more alike than he thinks, he and Nelyo.

Telvo closes his eyes, thinking of his brothers and their imperfections. He loves them, but he is still their equal, and they are not untouchable. He thinks he understands now.

It’s oddly reassuring. 

“Each one of us has our issues.” Tyelko has stood up again, though Telvo is not certain of when he moved. He had almost forgotten that he is here. He scratches the dirt absently with a stick, loops and marks with no meaning. “Even I…” 

Telvo turns to him. His shoulders are set, his eyes lowered to the ground and oddly wet. Suddenly, he understands this conversation is not just about him. 

“What troubles you?” he asks, reaching up to touch his shoulder.

Tyelko’s green eyes flash with gratitude, and the words come tumbling out of him again, like a river that has been held back and then finally released. “I worry for the forests. It wasn’t mere words, what I told you about the woods back in Endor. Every day I think about how, if we could return to Endor, we could free it from the shadow and return my lord’s rightful place to him. I could do  _ so much _ , and I fear I will do nothing.”

“If we could return to Endor.” Telvo exhales. “Pityo worries for all of us.” 

Tyelko gives him a quizzical look. “Pityo?”

“When we came out of the garden, we were talking about what could happen if we all returned to Endor. It was a daydream, really. We could be away from all this court nonsense, free of troubles. I pointed out that there would still be no peace, as we would turn on each other.”

Telvo hesitates on his next words. He cannot tell Tyelko about the House of Memory; he would never take Ambarto’s choice from him. 

“That turned out to be the wrong thing to say, because Pityo told me that he fears we will turn out like Atar and his brothers.”

“Half-brothers,” Tyelko corrects automatically, then freezes. “Oh.”

Telvo gazes into the light and wonders of the future, a future full of darkness and danger and forests shrouded in shadow, where they could refuse to even acknowledge each other as family. 

Ambarto twitches slightly in the cloak, visibly struggling to keep his eyes closed, and Telvo grins. Consoler and consoled; everyone needs comfort, once in a while.

“But I don’t think we will,” he says, raising his voice for Ambarto’s benefit. “They are wrong, all of them. Pityo and the court are sorely mistaken, if they think we will ever break apart. The Lord of the Darkness knows  _ nothing! _ ” 

He shouts the last words at the golden sky, and the trees echo them.  _ Nothing, nothing, nothing _ . In a long line of defiant acts to come, this is to be his humble first: faith in his family. 

“We will stay together until the end. Can you hear me, everyone? It will be us against the world!”

Ambarto’s eyes are wide open and shining. Tyelko laughs, more amused than anything else, but Telvo thinks he can hear a hint of pride in it.  _ Can you hear me, brother? _

He breathes in, then out, slowly. Laurelin’s light has turned the sky pale; the bells of the Mindon ring out across a silent, green country, and the peaks of Tirion’s towers are buried in the morning mist. Morning in Valinor. 

In this light and in this hour, the future seems very far away.

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first piece of writing for any fandom event, so feedback/concrit would be most appreciated. If anyone wants to yell about the disaster princes with me, you can [visit me on tumblr here!](werian-wintertid.tumblr.com)


End file.
